Monday, April 16, 2012

LEGACY the Path of Heroes - Session 010

WATERDAY, 05 NEEDFEST (MID WINTER) 579CY
Lareth heard the warning crackle of arcane energy, as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He turned to face his adversary.

“You forget your place Lareth!” shouted Black Wolf, anger clearly evident in his voice. He had been caught off-guard by the priest sudden attack upon hearing his news. He kicked Lareth’s mace to one side that lay on the floor and brushed fragments of stone from his cloak. His composure regained from the earlier encounter he continued, “Don’t forget who you serve.”

The bolt of arcane energy sprang from his hand, slamming into the Lareth’s stomach, the priest crumpled in a heap on the floor before him.

“The Dark One will not be happy.” whispered Black Wolf, as he watched the arcane energy fade from his hand.

Lareth in pain looked at the floor before him, where he had doubled over in pain. Black Wolf’s iron shod boots scrapped against the flagstones as he approached the priest. Kneeling down he leaned forward, wrapping Lareth’s robes in his balled fists in any effort to lift him from the ground. Standing he dragged the priest from the floor. Lareth tried to use the opportunity to break free of Black Wolf’s grip, but failed inflicted with the pain from the arcane spell.

“Make sure you fulfil your end of this venture,” instructed Black Wolf releasing his grip on Lareth’s robes, pushing him into the wall.

“You should have never sent Malek to Kleinmere. I had everything under control,” hissed Black Wolf as he turned to leave the room. “Dispatch your men and retrieve the dagger at the inn. I will take some men to retrieve the one from the church,” said Roderic as he closed the door behind him, not waiting for the priest’s response.

“My spies reported differently,” sneered Lareth. The pain in his stomach still evident in his face, he looked up to now what was an empty room. “it is you that must not forget your place,” he said before cough caused him to wince in pain, reaching into his robes to grasp his holy symbol. The feel of the cold steel in his hands eased the pain somewhat. He murmured a prayer and soon had the pain fading from memory.

Black Wolf was right he would need to send his men to retrieve the dagger before the opportunity was lost. He would put their differences aside for now …. Just for now!

The group of friends returned from their meeting with Canon Terjon to the Welcome Wench. Finding a table, each settled down to a late breakfast. Silence descended the table as each of the companions reflected on what had brought them to Hommlet and the quest that Canon Terjon had bestowed upon them. It would be some time before the items that they had requested would be ready, before they could return to the moathouse.

Duerin knew he had given his word to his church and he would see this errand through. It would be what Brother John would have wanted him to do. Markus’s thoughts lay with that of his mother and his retrenched uncle. He vowed that the man now known to him as Black Wolf, would soon feel the bite of his axe. Darius looked at his companions seated before him, circumstances had forced them together but his time here was almost at an end. He first needed to find Jaroo before he left for home and returned to his beloved Irriana with the druid’s help.

Erehwon alone sat at the table conflicted with why he had agreed to help his friends. “Why was any of this his business?” He thought. “He had an axe to grind with Black Wolf … sure, but that was it, nothing more,” he said to himself. He soon found solace in a tankard of mead, his sombre mood changing after a while. “Maybe I will just go a long for another day or two,” he reasoned to himself. “After all I have made a few coins for my trouble.” He said as he drained the sweet honey mead from his tankard, “but only for a day or two.”

Night Shade pulled her thick winter coat over her shoulders and gathered her staff. The staff cracked with arcane energy as she ran her hand down the wooden shaft before clasping her hand tightly around the wooden haft, near the top of the staff. Murmuring an arcane word, her and that of the staff transformed into that of an old lady with a crudely fashioned walking stick. Where once had stood a fine young lady of exceptional beauty now stood a crone. Looking upon her reflection in the mirror she cackled with glee and walked over to the small writing table.

She pulled the letter that she had receive from her sleeve and held it to the candle’s flame. She watched as the parchment took flame before discarding it into the empty plate on the table. She smiled a toothless smile and cackled, as the flame melted the red wax with the initials B.W. pressed into the parchment. Gathering her things Night Shade took leave of the room that she had spent the night in.

A short while later she spied a dwarf, an elderly man, a half-orc and a ruggedly handsome young man approaching her as she made her way down the road to the north. She let out a low whistle, “Yum! Yum!” she cackled and sported the young man a toothless grin, as he and his companions walked by.

Anmar and Calodan set out for Dyvers at the request of Canon Terjon. Calodan had at first rejected the paladin’s request to accompany him At Anmar insistance he later managed to convince Calodan, with offers of splendour that City of Dyvers had to offer. “Fine wines, woman and taverns a plenty and not specifically in that order,” Anmar had ensured him. “Come boy it will be an adventure,” the paladin had said. “I know I am going to regret this,” he thought as he smiled at Anmar.

The snow gently drifted to fall in the open courtyard of the moathouse, while the winter wind whistled through the crevices of the weathered mortar. Resulting in an eerie sound to the unexpecting visitor. Whilst a scampering of feet could be heard from the darkened corners of the chambers beyond the courtyard. The murky water sloshed against the muddy banks of the aging bastion, as a large serpentine reptile slithers through the clumps of floating lilies. The ominous and sombre mood of the moathouse and surrounds broken by the presence of patches of St. John’s Wort and Hawthorn plants. The St. John’s Wort flowering bright yellow flowers, in contrast to that of the Hawthorn bright red fruits that litter the banks of the moat. A distant caw of a dying bird breaks the late afternoon silence …

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